


After the Boys of Summer Are Gone

by aimmyarrowshigh, colazitron



Category: Stereo Kicks (Band), X Factor (UK) RPF
Genre: Barebacking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Riding, The X Factor Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/colazitron/pseuds/colazitron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With rumors of a mid-show split in the band looming, Tom and Barclay find a little unity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Boys of Summer Are Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Not britpicked at all, written in one go, based on [these rumors](http://www.unrealitytv.co.uk/x-factor/x-factor-will-louis-walsh-announce-tonight-hes-thinning-stereo-kicks/). Not related to the previous Stereo Kicks fic we did!

If The X Factor were ever really a competition of amateurs, it isn't anymore, and doesn't hide it well. Tom has known Jake Quickenden for ages, even performed at the same gigs; Only the Young, too -- they even performed with Cheryl, for fuck's sake. Charlie has his own VEVO account. It seems like almost everyone's at least auditioned before, except Charlie, and they know each other from around the corridors and hotels and grapevines whether they acknowledge it on camera or just with a nod.

Tom hasn't known anyone else on the show like he knows Barclay, though. He doesn't know if he's ever known anyone, period, the way he knows Barclay.

There are a hundred thousand things about The X Factor that Tom doesn’t want to lose. (If he’s honest, there are also a million very specific things he doesn’t want to lose the chance to get.) But after a year of sporadic meetings at gigs and shuffling around the countryside to wonder whether he’ll turn up this time, this time… knowing exactly how far he is from Barclay every day is a luxury that Tom has got used to over the last two months. Even if the band were voted out last week—which would have been shit—at least they might get picked up by some agency and had a little go-around for a few months. And then who knew?

But Louis fucking Walsh had to open his mouth, didn’t he. And everything’s up in the air.

Most of the House are asleep by now. Tom was, too, but Casey just snores like a demolition crew and even after a month in the same room, it’s enough to make them each wake up a few times in the night. Besides, Tom has to piss, and a cup of tea doesn’t feel totally unnecessary. He can’t get Louis fucking Walsh’s words out of his head.

_I never wanted eight. I haven’t connected with them. I didn’t want that many._

Why fucking take them at all, then? He didn’t have to say yes at Judges’ Houses. They could have been the act the Mel, AKA the producers, brought back as a wildcard and he could have pawned them off in some less painful way. It’s just unfair now. They have iPhones. They’ve all read the rumors. Charlie’s been hyperventilating for six days, texting Tom during his maths tutoring until Tom had to go all ‘Dad’ on him and threaten to tattle.

It wasn’t just feeling so adrift and cut loose from their moorings that sucked, but it was the idea that—they had no idea who would be told to go. Simon didn’t like Tom, but Louis did. Cheryl didn’t like any of them. Mel loved Jake, but Jake kept fucking up and fucking them all over, and even though he’s a laugh, Tom wouldn’t be sad to be shot of him and his willy by now.

There’s just no way to know.

The kitchen is big and quiet and what Tom needed, after he brews his tea and sits alone at the head of the table to drink it. There’s a clank from down below. Jake is probably in the gym, then, stewing over his own rumors. Maybe Jack is with him. It’s good, if he is. Jake is better when Jack’s around.

If he were Casey or James or Reece or Jake, Tom would leave the mug on the table for whomever woke first to deal with. But he isn't, even if he knows them so well by now. Into the sink it goes, water a quiet noise in the dark.

It's strange how for such a big house, he knows his way so easily. It isn't _home_ , but it isn't somewhere that he feels lost.

Even though apparently, people might think he is. Simon might think he is.

Tom's just hit the second floor landing when big, warm hands snake out from the first door and wrap around his arms to pull him into the empty room left behind by Jazz, Ruby, Chloe, and Stephanie. "Bad Luck Room," Lauren and Parisa called it.

He doesn't scream or anything but he does feel like he jumped out of his skin and when the hands release him and he whirls around his heart's beating wildly.

"Fuck's sake," he hisses at Barclay's face half visible in the dark room. There's just enough light from the street lamps outside spilling into the room. As no one sleeps here anymore the curtains are still wide open.

"Sorry," Barclay whispers. "Couldn't sleep, saw you weren't in bed..."

Tom heaves a long sigh and rakes a hand through his hair.

"'S okay. Just scared me, is all."

Barclay looks down and rubs his fingers across the top of his hair like he always does when he's nervous. "Sorry." He doesn't look back up when he asks, "D'you really think they're going to break us up tomorrow? In front of everyone like that?"

Tom releases another heavy breath and makes a conscious effort not to grind his teeth. His jaw seems permanently clenched anxiously these days.

"Wouldn't put it past them," he says honestly. There's no point in sugarcoating things with Barclay. They can handle it. He's not quite sure how anyone can believe 'the band have no idea about this' when the rumours about it are all ove the internet, as if they don't know how to use google? Or their families haven't been calling and texting up a storm? Tom kinda wishes he really didn't know. At least he'd not have to worry about all these hypotheticals then.

"Makes for good TV, yeah?"

"I guess it does. It'll kill Charlie."

"Yeah." Tom also doesn't pretend that Charlie won't be one for the chop. He's never around. It's easier, a bit, to think it'll be only Charlie, even though it makes him feel mean. "They might sack me, too. Simon doesn't like my voice."

"I don't even think they remember I'm here." Barclay rubs over the black whorl of tattoo around his upper arm, trying to look nonchalant. Tom's seen that trick before. "They'll keep you. You're everyone's favorite. Everyone with sense."

Tom laughs and rubs the sleepy side of his face against Barclay's shoulder. Fingertips touch just beneath Tom's jaw.

"'S TV though. Not got lots to do with sense, does it?" he murmurs. He's not sure there's much point to talking about this either, but whether it's the sleepy warmth of Barclay's solid frame or getting these words off his chest... he feels better.

Barclay brushes his lips over the corner of Tom's mouth and Tom's own twitch into a smile.

"They're idiots if they don't keep you," he repeats. Tom shrugs.

"Maybe we should both just suck and make them kick us off. Fuck this place. Form a duo."

Barclay doesn't laugh, but Tom didn't expect him to. Instead he pulls Tom closer with the hand that isn't still resting against the side of Tom's neck.

Tom's own hands uncurl from where he'd been unconsciously clenching them into fists at the sides of his thighs to follow the lines of Barclay's torso up to his shoulders, his neck, and into his hair. The back of Barclay's head is a bit damp, like he'd been sweaty in bed, and Tom rubs his fingertips over his scalp. "Kiss me, then."

The hand that Barclay's kept soft against the side of Tom's jaw comes alive, tilting Tom's head up until they can grope into the kiss with searching lips. Barclay tastes like toothpaste, and Tom thinks _he was just waiting for me to wake up, too_.

It's a thought that settles warm in the pit of his belly and behind his cheeks. With how much practice he's had kissing Barclay, he's gotten to know all kinds of kisses. Shy kisses first. Daring kisses next. Proprietary kisses because Barclay knows that Tom's pretty easy for him. Sweet kisses when it's late and recently rushed kisses cause no one behind their TV screen are really supposed to know that that's what's happening.

This one is none of those. This one's got Barclay's arms a tad too tight around him and his lips a bit harder than usual. There's so much tension in it.

Barclay practically lifts Tom off his feet when he pulls him close enough to slot their legs together, Tom on his toes so their hips align just right. Even with pants on, the way Barclay rides down on Tom's thigh is already rough.

It's all Tom can do to smooth his hands over Barclay's skin, gentle him.

"'S alright," he pulls back to whisper, before putting his lips back on Barclay's, pecking him sweetly and taking over control of the kiss easily. Barclay follows where he leads with his tongue and this time it's more languid than rushed. The stuttering of his hips against Tom's leg is still a bit frantic though.

"Hey," Tom whispers, his hands sliding down to tuck into the back of Barclay's pants. "There's time. I promise. We've time."

Barclay makes some sort of whiny noise in the back of his throat but then pulls out of the kiss and shudders through a long breath. He tucks his face into Tom's neck and nuzzles into the curve of his throat before he says anything.

"Just don't want to have to leave you here."

Tom doesn't have an answer for that. It's hard not to take it personally, right in the pit of his chest, because it might not be _him_ , not really. It's all of this, it's The X Factor, it's everyone here and everyone _out there_ that it could be.

But Barclay's skin is so warm, and right now, it's just them.

So he cuddles impossibly closer and kisses into the hair by Barclay's ear. He doesn't tell him he won't, because that seems insincere and he doesn't want to tell him that Tom has no intention of letting something like that be more than a bump in the road for... them, because that seems to much like talking about a 'them'.

"Wanna get your mind off it?" he asks instead, squeezing the flesh of Barclay's bum in his hand. He himself, for one, definitely wants to get his mind off it.

Barclay does laugh at that, the little snuffling sound that he affords only Tom's very worst jokes, because even the bad ones get real laughter. "'S'why I woke up at fuck-thirty in the morning, isn't it?"

"Hmm," Tom hums. "Only good for my cock and my throat here; I know how it is."

"Shut up," Barclay mutters. "You know that isn't true. I think you're brilliant. I told the whole world about it."

Tom smiles at that, because it's true. He did. 

He really doesn't want to lose Barclay again. He's one of the hundred thousand reasons he wants to say. He's a lot of those reasons.

Maybe not all or most of them, but a portion sizeable enough that the other reasons feel quite incomplete without this one.

This is really not the moment to think about all that though.

"I know, love, I was only teasing," he says and pulls his hand out of Barclay's pants, tracing them around the waistband to the front where his cock is filling up and still pressing against Tom.

"Shall we get you out of these?"

It's like that presses a switch and the desperate Barclay is back, already skinned out of his pants and left in just socks as he drags-muscles-clings to Tom over into one of the beds the gone girls left behind.

Tom lies back when Barclay urges him down, holding out his arms and going to spread his legs, but Barclay settles astride his lap without a second thought, rocking his hips down a bit.

"Like this, yeah?"

Tom raises his eyebrows. "You sure?"

"Yeah, just," Barclay stays and then stops. His hands underneath Tom's shirt are cold. "Wanna have you inside."

The shirt comes off, then, and flings somewhere behind a headboard no one's using. It won't be found until they've all moved out. Maybe no one will be able to tell it was Tom's, by then.

Tom's not sure which one it was, so he's pretty sure he's not going to miss it. Either way it's really hard to miss anything that's not Barclay on top of him while Barclay's, well, _on top of him_.

He's so much bigger than Tom is, there's always a moment when he thinks, _yeah, this might be easier the other way around_ , but it's never what Barclay wants, and Tom can't say he minds.

He likes lying back and watching Barclay pull of his underwear. He likes seeing that _Barclay_ likes it. The way he shuffles back up to sit back down on Tom's lap, their cocks pressed together now, naked as they are.

There's something hungry behind Barclay's eyes, and it isn't just wanting to stay and wanting to win and never getting enough sleep and never quite getting enough to eat and having to spend all of their bloody time in a circus.

Tom quite likes that too, likes thinking that maybe _he's_ what's slating that particular thirst. He strokes a hand up one of Barclay's thighs and behind, jerks him forward a bit with a hand on his bum, just to convey the message.

Which is when a thought occurs to him.

"Did you bring lube?"

Barclay grins at him, smug as always, and fingers a little sachet -- the type they gave out at school sex ed -- out of the ankle of his sock.

"Sexy," Tom deadpans, but he can't quite deny that it is. Barclay brushed his teeth and stashed away lube in his sock and now he's on top of Tom and clearly wanting to make his dick very happy very soon. It _is_ a bit sexy.

Barclay just smiles happily at him as he hands over the little plastic packet. He doesn't take his socks off, and Tom wants to protect him from whatever's coming down the line tomorrow evening.

He knows he can't, not really, but what he can do is smile back.

"Give us a kiss?" he says and rips open the sachet, getting his fingers wet while Barclay leans down for the kiss, one hand on Tom's chest and one propping him up on the sheets beside him.

It feels like Barclay is _everywhere_ , hovered over Tom like this, all broad shoulders and big arms and muscles everywhere, crowding down on him.

Tom likes that it feels like this. That when Barclay's on top of him, he's got all of him covered, like they're in a bubble where there's nothing but the heat of their skin.

"Budge up," Tom whispers, and Barclay listens, does it. His big hands clasp onto the headboard and he stares down at Tom with lips open.

Half of Tom feels like he should be saying something sexy here, half of him feels like a dork everytime he tries and most of him is just a bit too captivated by Barclay's glittering eyes and swollen, spit-shiny lips. Even in the mostly dark room he's a sight, hovering above his chest while Tom winds his arm around him, running a dry finger along his skin to find where he needs to finger him open.

Barclay always makes so many little sounds while he's getting fingered, like he doesn't even realize it. But he must, Tom always thinks, if there's one thing Barclay knows, it's exactly how to wring all the best notes from his throat and it must, must be calculated just how to drive him mad.

It clearly works as well. Tom's already got plans for the next time they have the luxury of an entire day and a bed to themselves. It might be a few weeks off yet, but he plans on giving Barclay the most thorough fingering he's ever had.

From this angle, Tom can't see much of what he's doing, but he can measure it in the flexing of Barclay's biceps and triceps above him. He grips the headboard in bursts, dark eyes falling shut.

"'Nother?" he asks, feeling his own muscles tense and release and the back of his neck almost glowing. He doesn't really want to rush through this, as such, but there's no denying that Barclay feels great around his fingers and knowing he's going to feel just as great, if not better, on his cock isn't exactly a calming thought.

Barclay nods, already arching back against Tom's hand. Neither of them has the softest fingers, all calluses from playing guitar, but at least they match.

Tom squeezes out a bit more of the lube over his hand, rubbing it into Barclay's rim before pushing another finger in. Barclay rocks back to meet him again and the sweetest noise falls from his lips. Tom's hips buck up a bit at it and Barclay must be able to feel the movement as he laughs a bit breathlessly down at him.

"Get on with it, old man," Barclay mutters, and his thighs press along Tom's ribs like he's urging a pony to run.

Tom thinks about slowing down just to piss him off for a moment, but Barclay takes one hand off the headboard and traces it down Tom's throat, over his chest and plucks at his nipple, clearly playing dirty.

"Fuck," he hisses and jabs his fingers in perhaps a bit too harshly, though Barclay doesn't seem to mind, by the way his eyelids flutter. "Don't distract me then."

Barclay just licks his thumb and takes it to Tom's nipple again. His hand can nearly span Tom's chest.

It's hotter than it's really got any right being, so Tom closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath and focuses on getting Barclay wet and open enough to sit on his cock.

A flurry just beyond the door reminds Tom that they aren't really alone -- almost as much as Barclay changing the lyrics last week right onstage, back to the real words and away from The X Factor's OFCOM-friendly variation. _I remember when I made you scream_.

This is no place for screams, of course, not if Tom's eyes haven't just gotten used to the darness and the room is actually lightening up slowly but surely, but, boy, does he remember. Barclay does too, if the way he grinds on Tom's hand and shakes his head is any indication.

"Enough, enough," he huffs, chest moving rapidly with his breaths.

"Did you happen to smuggle a condom in your sock, too?"

Barclay grins and leans back, reaching for his other sock. His smile falters a little and he gropes around for a bit. Tom watches the expression on his face shift while Barclay twists around and pulls the sock off, then the other one.

"Um. I... lost it?" he says sheepishly. It punches a laugh out of Tom's chest. Someone's going to find a condom lying around somewhere in the corridor then. Brilliant.

"'s alright," Tom says. They can get off like this. Barclay could scoot up a bit more and Tom could get his mouth on him, albeit carefully.

"You could... without?" Barclay says then, face ducked and eyes flicking between Tom's face and anywhere but Tom's face.

With a hand over Tom's chest like that, there's no way Barclay could miss the change in Tom's pulse. "Seriously?"

Barclay shrugs one shoulder. "I trust you," he says and figets a bit. "Kinda want you to."

Tom sticks out his tongue a bit. "You didn't lose it at all, did you?"

"Nope." Barclay looks proud of himself. "Had you going for a minute, though."

"You've had me going for longer," Tom says before he can stop the words and immediately flushes. There's something about how easy this is with Barclay that makes it so difficult not to be a giant dork.

Barclay just keeps looking pleased, his eyes heavy-lidded, then neither of them says a word as Tom steadies his cock with one hand so Barclay can slide down onto him slow, slow, slow.

It doesn't really get old, this. Every time it's a shiver of heat up Tom's spine and a fierce want filling up his inside and choking his throat. He really hopes it's this good for everyone.

Barclay stops clutching the headboard and folds himself down around Tom again, big palm along the side of Tom's neck as he gasps in for another hungry kiss.

Tom moans into his mouth a bit, one hand covering Barclay's on his neck and the other one tracing down to where he's sinking into his body. It's always held some fascination over him, feeling the place where they're joined with his fingers, but this time there's not the ridge of the bottom of the condom when he slides his fingers over them and his hips hitch up at the thought.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"S'good." Barclay just rocks harder, his own fat dick slapping against Tom's belly. Tom wraps his arms around Barclay's waist just to steady him before hitching his knees up so that he can brace his feet on the bed and give Barclay a bit more room to move.

"Yeah?" he asks, feeling a bit drugged with how good everything feels. "Is this what you wanted?"

Barclay just grunts and tucks his face down in the curve of Tom's shoulder to suck a kiss at the soft bit of skin there.

Tom takes it as confirmation anyway. It's never easy exactly to get a rhythm going between them, but after a few fumbles, they manage, meeting each other's hips smoothly.

The headboard hits the wall behind them with a _thump_ , and then another and another.

They should maybe be a bit more concerned with not waking anyone, but Tom's not even sure that there's another occupied room on the other side of this wall and anyway, everyone knows that this is what the empty rooms are being used for.

It's not like Jack and Jake haven't done this. Probably in the same bed, although Tom isn't fussed.

He's not fussed about much currently, other than Barclay's body practically radiating heat above him and how the pleasure curls ever more tightly in his body, ready to unfurl and explode outward what seems far too soon.

Barclay's got both arms and both legs wrapped around Tom like he's trying to melt onto his body, so Tom gets a hand wriggled between them just enough that he can wrap his fingers around Barclay's cock as best he can.

Barclay makes one of those gorgeous noises from before again and Tom has a brief moment wondering whether they might not be that calculated after all.  
Everything feels heady, low and cloudy over Tom's brain and he can't quite think enough to worry about how loud they are. There's just the motion of their bodies and the heat between them, the noises spilling from both their mouths and from where their hips slap together.

And then Tom's belly is wet and Barclay collapses against him, still rocking on Tom's cock but slower, trying. Tom pulls his hand out from between their bodies and puts both of them on on Barclay's bum, both warm and one of them a bit sticky wet, rutting up into him a bit more until he comes with a gasp, hips jerking with it and releasing his come into Barclay's body.

Everyone in the house must notice the stilling of the headboard, but Tom doesn't care. He can't really care about anything except how right now, in this moment, it doesn't seem like he's so much smaller than Barclay.

Barclay's slumped on top of him, still wound close and Tom shifts his hands up to Barclay's back, circles them tighter and holds on. They're both overheated and if he doesn't concentrate he can't tell the difference in body temperature between Barclay and himself. They're as close as they're gonna get, probably.

"I don't wanna stay if they don't keep you, too," Barclay mutters. "But I should, shouldn't I? Want to, I mean?"

"Yeah," Tom says. "I mean, I'll still be here either way. Not, like, here but. Waiting for you. I guess."

They stay in the empty room for the rest of the night, even though they aren't technically allowed. They aren't allowed to fuck people in the house, either, but no one's paying attention to that rule. 

In the morning, they both wander down to the kitchen for breakfast in their pants, Tom still missing the shirt that's been lost forever behind the bed. Reece looks scandalized and blushy, but no one else bats an eye.

After all, everyone in the House have known each other a long time now. Even if they don't know each other in quite the same ways.


End file.
